THE RELIABLE

By Paul Corman-Roberts

 

Benevolent bundle of ticks and twitches, the
lumped potato woman keeps herself to the shaded seats
down at Reliable Laundromat on Tenth and Madison,
hoping this October day isn't as hot as the past
couple of days 'cause her husband . . no, boyfriend . . . no
fiancé down at the shelter might have to take her to
Kaiser's butcher shop. I decide the icebreaking topic
of comparing the local weather to Vegas weather isn't
a good choice just now.

Her name is Carol. She's forty-three; got off
the dragon a year and a half ago, and gives a nervous,
quarter second smile every time she successfully
manages to park a train of thought next to the
platform of our conversation. She asks if I want a
cigarette.

"No, go ahead," I answer not thinking about it;
reveling more in the sweet, fiberglass runoff from the
Philip Morris special caked in her dry, cracked lips;
smoke drifting up only to tangle in the gnarled
expanses of shrubbery that are her hair, coloring in
the highlights.

Yeah, it smells like heaven compared to the smell
back in some Mission District rat hole she says,
living with a smack monkey who charges three fifty a
week and a junkie old man who only keeps her around to
have something to beat on when he's forced to settle
for crank.

Her new husband . . . no, boyfriend . . . no, fiancé,
just around the corner at the Jackson Street shelter;
a scraggly brother with a radiant smile, once bought a
bag of groceries from the city on the first of the
month and crossed over to wandered up and down San
Pablo, looking for her even though he didn't know
where her squat was. That's how you find true love
after bailing the Mission.

Carol and her man fit snug because they don't
have the working class luxury of dwelling on how
insecure they should be about the appearance of their
interracial shtick. They're jury of peers should be
so lucky to have partnerships. The lovers celebrate
the discovery of a forgotten janitorial shed. Away
from the prying noses and sticky fingers of the
shelter (residents, social workers, who the hell can
tell the difference.) Away so they can smoke some
cheap, brown Mexican weed. It makes home more
amusing.

"We got it good now," she cackles at the notion
that pot leads to heroin. "For peoples that's kickin'
it's the other way round."

The dryer whirls to a slow, creaky death. I put
down the sports section and walk over only to find my
clothes pseudo-humididried. I am mildly annoyed
because I know damn well I'm out of change and this is
the closest to dry I'll get on a stuffy October day.
I quietly fold my laundry, put it into my basket and
say good-bye to Carol, whom I shall see a year later
down by the Lake Merritt liquor store hitting up the
stoic pedestrians for change and cigarettes. She
looks like she's lost a lot of weight.

END

Paul Corman-Roberts is the producer of the annual San Francisco Anti-Slam and the former late night poet in residence at the Pacifica network's flagship station KPFA.  His work has appeared in 42opus, Cherry Bleeds, and Tea Party and is a current feature in the Muse Apprentice Guild.

Home                                                 Next